Clinton, South Carolina, Tuesday, November 22, 2016, 12:13 p.m.
Thanksgiving’s a coming, coming.
It’s my favorite holiday, in no small part due to the fact that I love to eat. Like every other stuffed American who awakens on Friday morning ill equipped for anything save football on TV, I plan to go on a diet. I did that with some success last year. At the moment, I lack motivation, and I expect as soon as this writing exercise is completed, I will probably have a mid-afternoon cup of coffee and a bagel.
Motivation comes Friday, that and, perhaps, a high school football game that night.
My mother and I haven’t had our daily phone conversation. She’s undoubtedly at my nephew’s house, already getting ready for the meal being hosted at Ray and Jessica’s house for the first time.
Betty Dutton’s oyster dressing carries a significance that is almost spiritual in the family. When Ray was a little boy, and I chided him for being sassy with his grandmother by telling him one day she’d be gone and he’d miss her, he stopped, considered those words for a moment, and his voice took on a dreamy aspect.
“Just think,” he said. “We’ll never have that dressing again.”
I also like Thanksgiving because it is peaceful. It doesn’t bring out the pettiness that sometimes accompanies other holidays. It’s not blazing hot like the Fourth of July. It’s not roaring with race cars like Memorial Day weekend. Santa may be a jolly old elf, but he sure requires a lot of support.
Mom already reminded me not to talk about politics. No matter. I’ll play my guitar. Just old, pleasant songs about a train carrying a girl from Tennessee, she’s long and she’s tall, and she came down from Birmingham on the Wabash Cannonball.
Besides, we can talk about sports. Politics has become the same thing, anyway.
I can’t wait to see how Ella’s boys have grown, and how we’ll all fuss over Jessica’s new baby, and Mom whispering that I should make a special point to praise the broccoli casserole because Ginger made that, and to be just about ready to push away from the table, only to have Mom show up with a platter of pecan pie, sweet potato custard, lemon pound cake, and chocolate eclairs.
It’s godly to be stuffed at Thanksgiving and broke at Christmas.
Stop by L&L Office Supply, 114 North Broad Street, Clinton and buy one of my novels. Buy Cowboys Come Home, Forgive Us Our Trespasses, Crazy of Natural Causes, The Intangibles, and/or a volume of my short stories, Longer Songs.
Kindle versions – you don’t have to have a Kindle, just a free app for your electronic devices – of most of my books are available here. Links to print copies are below.
Cowboys Come Home is my brand-new, fresh-off-the-press western, a tale of two World War II veterans of the Pacific who come back home to Texas, intent on resuming their cowboy ways.
Forgive Us Our Trespasses is the latest. It’s a tale about a crooked politician who wants to be governor, whatever it takes, and another man trying to stop him. It’s outrageous.
Crazy of Natural Causes is about the fall and rise of Chance Benford, a Kentucky football coach who reinvents himself. It’s original.
The Intangibles is about the South in the 1960s, complete with racial strife, bigotry, resentment, cultural exchange and, of course, high school football.
The Audacity of Dope is the tale of Riley Mansfield, a pot-smoking songwriter turned national hero with a taste for the former and a distaste for the latter.
Longer Songs is a collection of 11 short stories that all began in songs I wrote.